Taylor Swift “evermore”

Thinking about Taylor Swift, I have to admit an inexplicable fear, which is weird—it’s not so much that I’m afraid I’ll take a misstep and have the “Swifters” coming after me like the Children of the Damned—it’s more about the sheer amount of information (re: Taylor Swift) as if information has a horrible weight… which it does. I suppose this occurred to me after I photographed the cover of this album, after selecting it for scrutiny via my random system, and ever since, the photo “widget” on my phone keeps presenting me the picture as if there was a “death and taxes” inevitability to our collision course. It’s kind of chilling. Also, I’m not exactly a fan—not surprising, since I listen to very little music from the last half-century, and I wouldn’t be able to pick her songs out of a crowd. Now, I have nothing against immense popularity—after all, I like tacos, sports, sex, drugs, and cats, like a normal person. But to be honest, I wholeheartedly dislike such a high percentage of music, in general, the casual observer might assume I don’t like music at all. So, how did I end up with a vinyl version of this album? Funny story—I saw it in a used bin for $2 and snatched it up, thinking I was capitalizing on some pricing glitch, only to discover, once home, that it’s a double-record—and was somehow missing side one and two! Thus, the discount. Probably should have cost less.

The remaining disc, however, was a beautiful, translucent, dark green, and I did capture the thrill of putting a Taylor Swift record on the turntable, waiting to hear what comes forth (admittedly, a thrill I have with every odd record I buy without knowing much about it). I like the cover, no text, just a large, kind of creepy photograph of TS, back turned to us (it would be genius if it was actually a stand-in) hair braided, wearing a warm coat (reminds me of “The Cowboy” in Mulholland Drive). It asks you to consider how weird the back of people’s ears are. Or for that matter, ears in general. Or humans, in general… uh oh, better get off this hamster wheel! A little background. I don’t normally have any truck with Wikipedia pages longer than The Warren Report, but a few things immediately surprised me: she was born in Pennsylvania; is only 36 (at press time); and was named after James Taylor! (and not Charlton Heston’s character in Planet of the Apes). Enough for now. The remaining disc’s inner sleeve has complete credits for each song, in the smallest font I’ve ever seen, and also, lyrics. I must admit, I’m not a lyrics-oriented listener, generally. After all, my favorite song (from like age 12 to 14) was “Tumbling Dice,” and I still have no clue what Mick’s singing in about 95% or it. But I believe the lyrical content is important to Swift-world, and she puts them right out there with impressive verve, so I have no choice but to pay attention. My least favorite line on the record is, “I come back stronger than a 90s trend.” I don’t even know what that would be, unless puking was a 90s trend. But, come on, I want to be positive, so the approach I’m going to take is to go song by song, listen closely, and then only mention the ones I love. For the songs on the first, missing, record (if you think about it, what in the hell happened to that other disc? —weird!) I’ll try to find them on YouTube. Ha. Which will, no doubt, irreparably Swifterize my algorithm.

So. “champagne problems” is very nice—I can relate, yet I can’t—unless that first line is a double metaphor. I had “Night Train” problems, myself. “gold rush” is one of those songs that the lovely chorus takes me into its arms—but the rest of the song pushes me away—maybe that’s the point. “’tis the damn season” really does give me a wistful feeling—not SAD, but rather sad-nostalgic. “tolerate it” perfectly describes how I feel about this song—I’m emotional on one hand, but kind of repulsed by some of the word choices. “no body, no crime”—I wish more of these songs feat. Haim—it’s a good one—aka “no harmonica no chicken.” “dorothea” is a catchy, moving song—remind me to listen to that one again. Switching to the vinyl version, now, it’s notable how much better “ivy” sounds on the record than via the ’tube—maybe because of the green vinyl—but… TS, must you curse so much? “cowboy like me”—my favorite on the album — “And the tennis court was covered up with some tent-like thing” is a fantastic opening line —and I love the chorus in this song, too. “marjorie”—very nice song, kind of haunting, I’m convinced by the sadness. Though I’m only half-convinced by “evermore”—it’s about 80% much too much! And that’s all, folks! —yet, there are two “bonus tracks”—which I have (vinyl) but I don’t get (understand)—meaning, without them, would there only be two songs on Side Four? That’s nearly as bad as one of those smartass “three side” records. But no, of course the bonus tracks are here. If they weren’t, how would we know they exist? “right where you left me” is one of my favorites on the record, too, really good song. “it’s time to go” is okay, too, if a bit overdetermined—but a good closer (if you’re lucky enough to get the bonus)! Next time I make a record, the last song will be called, “This is the Last Song on this Record” —and it’ll be all about how it’s the last song on the record!

5.8.26

Rotary Connection “The Rotary Connection”

This should be the kind of record that’s legendary, hard to find, and thus costs a million dollars… but it’s easy to find—so we’re lucky. It’s still legendary. The 1967 LP is the first of six Rotary Connection records that came out by 1971—I’ve never seen the other five—I’ll keep my eye out for them. The band name sounds inevitable, even if you can’t put your finger on it, exactly. The album cover seems to be a pleasant, kaleidoscopic abstract—but, no, wait, you look a little closer and realize it’s eight women, might be members of the band, all but naked, lying there in a big, circular pattern, their feet toward the center, recreating something—I’d know what if I hadn’t skipped out of art history. They’re covered only by some religious sheet music (I believe), and they all have fluffy angel wings and crowns of daisies. Viewed with churchgoing bifocals, that cover might have gone over less well with the squares than even the music.

The band was put together by Marshall Chess—I guess this was his new label—so he assembled this group of misfit musical geniuses—“misfit” is a matter of opinion (I mean it in the best way), though genius (I vowed not to overuse that word, but whatever) can be heard. I’m familiar with none of them, save Chess, and Charles Stepney, also an arranger and producer, and, of course, Minnie Riperton, before her solo career. I guess some are session musicians, and some were in a band, but for this brief moment in time they’re together and up there with the most interesting thing going on, though not remotely commercial—too experimental! Some of these tracks should have been big hits of the day, though—maybe they were—I was seven years old and still trying to figure out my audio system. Between the most catchy songs, there are some oddities too weird even for me—quite out there. There’s this mini-tradition of rebelling against the two-sided platter by refusing to say A or B, so, fruity alternates instead (“This Side” / “That Side”) etc.—that just seems quaint after the CD era—but I get it. Here it’s: “Trip 1” and “Trip 1 (cont.)”—I like it. (Of course, there’s always still an A and B, or One and Two, if just for tax reasons.) If I ever put out a solo record, I’m gonna follow the tradition—my idea: “Chaos Theory” / “The World of the Chicken Pot Pie.” Or maybe, how ’bout… no. I’ll stop there.

The best way to approach the music is to pretend I just came home with it, knowing nothing, and simply put it on, not even looking at song credits or anything, just naturally going on “Trip 1” followed by “Trip 1 (cont.)”—how would it make me feel? (Besides like a rolling stone.) Best to just try it: Trip 1. Well, like I’m on that monorail to Disney Heaven, harps and all. Interlude, cello, whatnot. Some otherworldly, ethereal vocal sounds (must be Minnie Riperton) at a range only ghosts can hear. Nice pop song. Is that a sitar or are you just happy to see me? Distant waves on a shore. Yma Sumac style “Lady Jane” —best version of this song ever. “Like a Rolling Stone” on a Golden Hits easy listening record from another galaxy. (cont.) If you could imagine hearing “Soul Man” in The Shire, Middle-earth, this is it. “Didn’t Want to Have to Do It” sounds alarmingly straight in this context—it’s a beautiful soul number—should have been a late Sixties No. 1! Then, 23 seconds of Baptist church. Fantastic “instrumental” (voices, la la la la etc.) it’s a scene from the forgotten-universe feature-film where Frank Sinatra plays an aging hippie, complete with groovy rug. As far as I know, at the beer-themed church next door, they do pull off a holy version of “Ruby Tuesday” —but I haven’t heard it until here. Okay! Finally? Guys? You don’t do yourselves any favors by ending with a “song” that’s essentially the sound of a confused listener dropping the needle and quickly rejecting the results… on this album. No one’s gonna dig that, except maybe the most consummate stoner. It is pretty funny, though.

5.1.26

Smith “Minus-Plus”

The second and last album from Smith—I wrote about their first, some years ago—what did I say? I liked it—and I like this record a lot, too—so why’d they split up? You know there’s no way to answer that—the more interesting question is, bands that stay together—how do they do it? (Sometimes the answer might be no more complicated than: it’s better than flipping burgers.) Anyway, this is a great sounding, soulful record. A couple different band members from the first record, and more original songs, I guess. Because I have the first one, I’m going to have to get it out and compare the two. Oh, right, I remember this record, it’s good—even though I don’t have it permanently sitting out for putting on anytime day or night, it is a record I’m glad I had the occasion to come back to. Their version of “Baby It’s You” is striking and weird, a great take on the song, excellent, and no wonder it was a hit. They were definitely a hot band, but their secret weapon is Gayle McCormick’s singing—so the more of that, the better. My favorite songs on this record are: “You Don’t Love Me (Yes I Know),” “Comin’ Back to Me,” and “Since You’ve Been Gone.”

Why are (were) they called Smith? My sources say they evolved from a band called “The Smiths” (not the Morrissey one) and you can hardly blame them for distancing from their real names, which all sound like someone else who is famous (Alan Parker), and/or prominent food products (McCormick, Bob Evans). What could they have done differently? For that I need two as equally miraculous fantasies—a functioning time machine, and that people actually listen to me—and I’ll go back and work as their manager, for peanuts (or in today’s dollars, peanuts). First, that album cover—in the foreground there’s about 20 garishly colorized “small-folk-from-another-land” dancing jigs, wearing weird shoes and hats, possibly having sex, and worst of all, playing bagpipes—just the suggestion of which is enough to kill sales. The band, black and white, is barely visible in the back (somehow all left-handed). I would suggest a simple full album cover picture of the band in action, because they look great. Also, the band logo, made out of wood, is terrible—nearly any other font would be an improvement, even Jokerman. Better yet, the back cover picture of the band members sitting on top of a mountain—make that the front cover—and while we’re at it, change the title to “Take a Look Around.” And the biggest change of all—change the band’s name! Now, I know that’s an activity that can, in itself, break up a band, as well as make strong men weep—so, guys (and gal) just defer to your new manager who’s got a system (random word from a book). So… Hand. Hand Band? No. Okay, fuck that. Okay, try this one: Mons Huygens. I like it! Remember, it’s 1970. People were less squeamish about references with an overt sexual nature, back then.

4.24.26

Archie Ulm – Archie Ulm Experience!

A second private press record of organist Archie Ulm showing off his organ prowess, from 1979, three years after that excellent “at the Yamaha Ex-42” record (appreciated in these very pages [could it be?] nine years ago!) This time working out on the EX-1, according to the liner notes on back, in a font called “I’m a Calligraphist!” When you think Yamaha, you might think of that $129 plastic thing gathering dust in your closet (or a motorsicle) but this EX-1 allegedly cost in the vicinity of $30,000 when introduced (adjusted to today’s dollars, that’s about a billion and a half). It’s one of those things that your cool-gear-alert is never going to bring up, as rare as they are. And literally medium rare, as they were apt to burst into flames, as can be seen in a tragic event portrayed on the album’s cover. That’s a joke. Still, I don’t think they’re easy to find because, after searching for one their other day, I’m not getting ads for them every time I open my phone—yet, someone’s going to find one in church for free, if they bring the muscle to get it in the truck. With the genius Archie Ulm at the controls, it would do things like no other organ ever, for example, when playing “Caravan” or “Claire de lune” it will literally teleport (like that thing on Star Trek) the listener to a hidden room in House on the Rock that no one’s ever found their way out of. Plus, it looks very cool. Some of these performances are solo, and some assisted, with excellent results, by percussionist Paul Hergert and steel-guitarist Larry Carrico. Eight hot numbers (it almost doesn’t matter what he plays—he could make “Hotel California” interesting) including a swell “Time is Tight,” and my favorite, here, “After the Lovin’” (and I was never even a fan of “The King of Romance”). Also, one of the better covers of “MacArthur Park” (I collect them all) though he loses some points for brevity—not doing that part that goes, “Da da, da da, da da da da da da da, di di di di di di, di di di di di di di di,” and so forth. Of course, if he’d gone a further step up to the even more rare and heavy GX-1, I believe that had a Richard Harris simulator. And, though, of course, no machine can match the voice of Sammi Smith, the version of “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” here, is still quite nice. With that steel guitar. Quite nice.

4.17.26

Michael Franks “Sleeping Gypsy”

One of my favorite Michael Franks records—maybe my favorite of those I have on vinyl. I was very excited to find it in a record store, and I even threatened to compromise my trash aesthetic by paying more than I usually pay for a record. That’s kind of a joke, because my low-budget-aesthetic has more to do with economics (no money) than aesthetics. I have more Franks records on digital format than vinyl (I’m not sure if they’re all even available on vinyl) and he’s one of half-a-dozen artists I go to on any given day to fill my dank room with sunshine and create an atmosphere for sustaining life (mine, as I work on stuff). I looked it up, and it’s only his third, from 1977. I have half of his 18 studio records on vinyl, but there are five (of those I don’t have) that I’ve not yet even heard! Talk about something to look forward to, in life! He’s an odd one, because he’s recorded from the Seventies up until present, but you can’t place any of his albums in a time period, or decade, even. (Though, cover art, perhaps). But his music, to me, feels as timeless as pizza, sex, and fermentation.

The inner sleeve has recording studio snapshots of the musicians—casual photos of some heavy-duty cats. Some of the best to ever do this stuff, including Joe Sample, Larry Carlton, Wilton Felder, and more. Also, there are lyrics, and Michael Franks lyrics are definitely worth paying close attention to, and you’ll pick them up on repeated listenings, because the words enhance the songs considerably. Just check out, for example, even without the music, “In the Eye of the Storm.” He wrote all eight songs here, and he credits co-writes on a couple. They’re all good. I really should spend a lot more time going song by song, but then I’d have one of those 33 1/3 books, unpublished, and I swear I’m shooting for one paragraph reviews—I’m trying! My favorite is the opener, “The Lady Wants to Know,” which I bet is on or close to the top of many Franks fans’ lists. It’s one of his coolest, no doubt. My next favorite is “Antonio’s Song (The Rainbow)”—well, equally as great. It occurs to me that those two are on a “Best of” CD I’ve listened to excessively, so maybe that’s part of why they’re standouts in the moment. (I’ve got to say, the songs sound better on vinyl, and that’s not my imagination.) The more I listen to the record, the more they all become my favorites.

This is a beautiful and intriguing album cover—it’s right up there—a bit mysterious. The entire thing taken up by an orange and white design that looks uncannily organic, given its complete lack of anything recognizable. I am guessing it’s a treated photograph—maybe of a forest or glade of heavy trees—then the contrast and color temperature altered to the extent that it creates more or less an abstract. The artist name and album title at the very top in barely there, small case, italic print. In the bottom right there’s a small, jeweled moth or butterfly that could have just landed there. Your lepidopterist will, with a resigned sigh, say, “Of course, that’s a _____!” (Tyronious Pyrothrombosius, or something no one, but them, would ever be able to remember.) The back cover is a full-size photo of Michael Franks standing in front of glade of trees (that could be the front cover trees prior to treatment), and he looks somewhat like Tom Siler (one of the geniuses behind my favorite band of all time, Tulip Sweet). He’s got the 1977 hair and moustache, a goofy bucket hat, and a WB (Warner Bros.) sweater. The total nerdiness of his look is a cool by contrast counterpoint to the music, which is as hot as it gets. And, also, very cool.

4.10.26

Cal Tjader “Last Night When We Were Young”

I love a meandering intro, where you have no idea what the song is—if I ever write a song again—memo: include a meandering intro! Here, it’s piano, and it’s very nice, but when that electronic vibraphone sound comes in with the melody of “I Can’t Get Started” it’s otherworldly sounding! My favorite moment on this record—does that mean the rest of the playing time can’t add up? No, it’s all very fine. “With strings” as it says right on the cover—and vibes, piano, guitar, bass, and drums. I particularly like some of the guitar—Eddie Duran on the six-string comforter. Cal Tjader is most known for Latin music, which is absent here, so buyer beware, I guess—but this a really nice collection of ballad interpretations, some standards, songs you know—the above, the title song, “Emily,” “What’ll I Do,” “For All We Know,” and a Bacharach. Only four songs per side, however, so my main complaint is it’s all too brief, which is too bad, since this would be an ideal, lowlight, easygoing, make-out record—but unless you’ve got one of those automatic changers, you’re gonna have to work fast.

I was looking at the big “i” to see what far-off land Cal Tjader was born in, since I couldn’t remember (St. Louis)—when the search suggested “cause of death”—is it somehow controversial? (No. Like everyone born before like 1980 he died from cigarettes, whether they say that or not.) But I figure the real reason is he made so many records—he was tired out. I can’t even count them all, so many—from 1953 or so up to his death in 1982. This one is from 1975. But what’s equally impressive is whose records he collaborated on, and then just played on—I mean you had to show up to the studio. There was no Skype. When did he have time to eat dinner, or go to a baseball game, much less go to the bathroom. He’s on so many records, I figured he might have been malletting those vibes until he was like hundred—but no! He died ten years younger than I am now! It makes you reflect.

Liner notes by Herb Wong, a Bay Area jazzbo, are in micro-font, white on black, italics, with a righthand margin called somebody’s idea of a joke. They’d better be spicy. Very thought-out and informative, and he argues that this is serious business, not to be confused with “mood music” or “dinner jazz”—and you won’t find any argument from me, in spite of my comment (above) about the record’s potential suitability for a romantic interlude. The album cover is a bit bizarre—and kept reminding me of something—the closest I could figure was that it looks like a warm-tone version of Robin Trower’s “Bridge of Sighs” (1974). You could call it an “abstract” and be arguably correct—but if you look at it with the right slant, I think you’ll realize it’s an extremely blown-up color photo of a woman’s mouth, backlit so the red lipsticked lower lip resembles something very hot, glowing, or juicy (all of which could be correct). And if I’m wrong—that’s the power of the imagination. Speaking of which, on the other hand, I can’t get it out of my mind that it also makes me think of E.T. (The Extra-Terrestrial) in that scene where he lowers himself down on victims to suck their blood. Yee-ow. I still get nightmares from that movie.

4.3.26

Blodwyn Pig “Ahead Rings Out”

I would love to approach this record as if I was in the North Woods in a cabin with a hi-fi and some records and no internet. Might not get past the album cover, bright orange, with a bright yellow circle around a blue circle in which is placed a carefully cut out image of a (I’d like to think, alive) pig’s head on which is collaged some round, designer sunglasses, stereo headphones, a nose ring, and a smoldering marijuana cigarette! I’m sure it’s not even close to the most hideous album cover of the 12-inch vinyl era (a big era, with a lot of travesty), but even entering that conversation perhaps paints the picture. The yellow circle contains the band name, Blodwyn Pig (meaning, you tell me) and the album title, “Ahead Rings Out” (why not)—both in a font called “Look-it Me.” The back cover offers very little respite—in fact none—as it’s exactly the same, except for song titles instead of band name, and, instead of the pig head there is what one can only logically conclude is a pig tail, in that this is the ass-side of the cover—but maybe I’m wrong, because aren’t pig tails curly? And this thing looks more like a deformed carrot or an unidentified piece of cooked meat. Yes, it’s gross.

Assuming I get the vinyl on the player, I would love to approach it via a song-by-song basis. “It’s Only Love” is a rousing, hot, R&B number, or maybe blues rock, with an overwhelming horn section and a driving rhythm, until we get to a horn solo and then a guitar solo. Okay, these guys can play, but this song is nothing you haven’t heard on a non-pig-head record. “Dear Jill” slows it down with a slide guitar and plaintive vocal, the usual man apologizing to the woman about neglecting her (likely because he’s spending all his time rehearsing music). Another nice horn solo. “Walk On the Water” then, gets a little prog-y, I guess, or maybe it’s a commercial for orange juice. These are all pleasant, listenable songs, by the way, even if my descriptions don’t convey that. “The Modern Alchemist” begins with a horn, then some stopping and starting, and then a full-on jazz rock jam instrumental. This is a fantastic song—drums, bass, guitar, and horns (I know for a fact that this dude sometimes plays two horns simultaneously). At some point the horn drops out and the guitar solos for a while—it’s an excellent guitar sound—very clean, pure, and organic. Then the horns come back—also, an excellent horn sound. It all slows waaay down, to almost nothing. It’s a very minimal sound. And naturally it goes back to the original riff to end the song.

But wait, the cover opens up, and inside there’s four photos of the four band members, with their respective instruments (the horn player indeed with two mouthpieces inserted). A lot of hair; of the time. And liner notes! Some production notes, and a date: 1969. The liner notes are by Mick Abrahams, and he starts out explaining how you can turn the album cover into party hats (no one has ever done this). Then a song-by-song rundown—exactly what I’m doing right now! Seeing how he’s one of the songwriters and singers, and the guitarist, his are probably more informed. Also, funnier! However, I’ve got a little more distance, and thus, objectivity.

Side Two continues with “See My Way,” an upbeat number with a horn riff underneath, driving it, then guitar matching the horn. The bass player and drummer are excellent by the way. Some vocals about, I don’t know, and another super-hot guitar solo. “Summer Day” starts with a really fine blues guitar riff which alternates with some blues vocals—it’s all very tight and minimal—and super catchy—my favorite on the record—sounds like two guitars and no horns on this one—another hot solo—and it ends with one of the blokes rambling incoherently. “Change Song” is an acoustic blues, nothing you haven’t heard before, though it’s really quite pretty. Without the lyric sheet, there’s probably something subtle here I’m missing, but now I’m missing the insane horns, come on! “Backwash” is a very short flute interlude which leads into: “Ain’t Ya Coming Home?” —and horns are back! A song with a lot of little parts, like a rock opera in just over 5 minutes, which is exactly how long rock operas should be limited to.

My curiosity gets the best of me, so I take the jeep into the closest country store with a barely attached café, with coffee and wi-ifi, and I spend no time finding that the band members were Mick Abrahams on guitar, Jack Lancaster on sax and flute, Andy Pyle, bass, and Ron Berg, drums. This was their first record—they released another the next year, and that was that. They should have been the next supergroup, but you know, people come and go. It’s hard enough to keep a marriage together much less four guys who are all hot musicians. I usually won’t refer to videos (and certainly not via link, for the love of god), but since I already paid the exorbitant wi-ifi internet use tax here, I want to mention a couple of extraordinary bits I quickly found (didn’t dig too deep). One is a black and white, live version of “The Modern Alchemist” for the Beat-Club TV show—that seems to be oddly lacking the guitarist—but the other three do an amazing rendition of the song—and it’s shot nicely, as well. The last thing is also Beat-Club, and it’s apparently after The Pig disbanded, I think—it’s the “Mick Abrahams Band,” running thru a fun and funny song called “Greyhound Bus”—cool to watch ol’ Mick play that guitar, and there’s an organ player who is quite insane. I watched it, to say the least, a few times—this is what they made the internet for.

3.27.26

Larry Penn “I’m a Little Cookie”

I have to admit—not being hip to the Milwaukee folk music scene, or any folk music scene, or any Milwaukee scene—that I’d never heard of Larry Penn, and the reason I bought this 1983 record is because I saw it in the store (in 2023) and there’s a giant drawing of what looks like a gingerbread man, and the album is called “I’m a Little Cookie.” I mean, how can you resist that? Once I heard it, however, I was in love with the sound, the singing and playing, and the songs, and so it’s been “on repeat” here at the lab to the extent that a few of my neighbors have gotten together to request I “cool it” with the “cookie song.” There is something inherently funny about cookies just because they will cause even the most adult adult to suddenly become five years old. (I admit, if I had a gluten-free windmill cookie on hand, I’d be eating it right now!) As far as I can tell, the title song is about disregarding the flaws in things, I think. My record comes with two two-page inserts (so if you need an extra, let me know) which includes full lyrics—though Larry Penn sings so clearly, you don’t need a lyric sheet. One nice thing, however, as he notes—in a live performance he might accompany the song with an intro, anecdote, or story, so here we get that in written form, and the comments are great bits accompanying the songs. A lot of labor songs, pro-union songs, nice to hear. Me, being a weirdo, find that my favorite songs (as with everything else) are about food, and my favorite on this record is about—at least on the surface—speculating on how a flamingo would taste, cooked “golden brown.” Yikes! Though, he may be (see the notes) referring to “pink flamingos.” Larry Penn passed away in 2014 at the age of 87. It looks like some local folk musicians and old friends of his hold a tribute concert every year and play his songs and no doubt reminisce. The songs on this record are timeless and, I suppose, are growing more timely as time goes on.

3.20.26

Skeeter Davis “The End of the World” / “Somebody Loves You”

“The End of the World” was Skeeter Davis’ biggest hit song and it’s one of the most beautiful and saddest, and it’s also one of my favorites. Taking nothing away from everything else she ever recorded. This single is from 1962—but I honestly can’t remember when I first heard it. It’s written by Sylvia Dee and Arthur Kent. Produced by Chet Atkins. Over the years, it was covered by a ton o’ artists—let me look up to see if there’s any particularly weird ones—whoa, way too many to delve into—maybe on a rainy Saturday. I am going to predict that the Skeeter Davis version remains my favorite—and that’s simply because she’s my favorite singer. Also, it’s a simple, elegant arrangement—piano, strings, and a little steel guitar—it accentuates the charm of her singing. I never get tired of it. Toward the end there’s a subtle key change, and then she does that thing where she speaks a couple of lines (no one does that better)—but only two lines, and then she sings the rest, and then it’s over. It leaves you wanting more. Put the needle back to the beginning. There’s something else about the song—lyrically—which is hard for me to articulate. It’s a basic love song (but very effective in its sadness)—your broken heart makes you feel like the world’s ending, sure. The funny thing is, you can actually use it as an expression for… the end of the world—be it an individual death, or death of all life on Earth—comparing those tragedies to a broken heart—in kind of a reverse metaphor! The B-Side, “Somebody Loves You,” is another Skeeter Davis classic—a lovely romantic number by Charles Tobias and Peter De Rose—it could be anyone’s A-Side.

3.13.26

Renaissance “azure d’or”

I wrote about a previous Renaissance LP almost a year ago to the day so I looked at what I said, in order not to repeat myself—and I could be lazy, here, and just say “ditto” and provide a link to that one. But, alas, I’m not in the providing a link game (which I kind of despise) so I’ll just repeat myself a little. I picked up half a dozen $3 Renaissance records in a bit of a flurry at my former favorite antique mall $3 bin (he’s since moved to the “boondocks”) just because I could, and due to liking the “Annie in Wonderland” (Annie Haslam) record so much, but I haven’t liked any as much as that, so I stopped before I bought their entire 13 studio discography (though, if I saw the first couple, I might). This one from 1979 seems to be a new tack toward more pop, less fancifully lengthy—and the poppier ones I do like a bit—and imagine they might grow on me if I gave it more repeat time. At least they resisted the temptation to “go punk.” But once again, I don’t love the arrangements and the songs are hit and miss and really, it’s just Annie Haslam’s voice that is keeping me from putting it in the “donate” box. I don’t know if the new approach led to more sales, but they kept the band together in one form or another for more records, over half a century, and they may even still be out there. Also, I do like the title, azure d’or—which is most certainly a restaurant somewhere with small plates. The cover—an abstract blue and gold liquid splash over the starkest white—looks like an ad for an antidepressant, or, okay, I guess a water filtration system. And once again I’ll offer some advice to anyone who’s thinking about venturing into the vinyl realm—you’ll need a turntable—and when buying one make sure to get one that has an automatic arm return when it gets to the end of the record! (I’m reminded of this every time I forget and let the needle sit on the end of the record for like 45 minutes!)

3.6.26

Black Licorice – Promotional Flexi-Disc

I’m always kind of amazed that flexi-discs even exist—and sound as good as they do. This is an attractive red vinyl square 7-inch with three songs at 331/3 RPM—a promo for Frankie Latina’s movie, Black Licorice, which may or may not be the current, future, or past working-title of an epic masterpiece yet to be possibly re-named, and destined to be legendary for its untraceable versions. Both meat and hell for the archivists! Printed song order may be off—but you figure it out. There’s the haunting organ-led instrumental, including ocarina solo and Mormon Tabernacle-like choir, closing credits score, here named “Black Licorice Theme”—by Didier Leplae and Joe Wong, which could be straight out of a 1970s Revisionist-Spaghetti Western. Also, the amazing “Modus Operandi”—from Frankie Latina’s 2009 movie by the same name—this also credited to Leplae and Wong, along with Cookie Johnson, who sings on the track, which is deliciously ironic as it’s the soundtrack for the scene in the movie where Cookie Johnson’s character meets her demise (along with half the characters in the film). It’s such a good upbeat, soul funk number—with a filthy saxophone, groovy flute, and then belted vocal finale—it’s kind of unfortunate that it’s not a proper 45 because it could be a dancefloor staple from now on into eternity (or as long as people are dancing). Finally, here is a real oddity, something called “Pick-Up Truck,” credited to Mark Borchardt and V. Cesaretti—which is a short, spoken-word performance by the unmistakable Mark Borchardt, backed by a sound-collage—about a… pickup truck. These promo discs probably went for free, and you nabbed one if you were lucky—and you might want to hang onto yours—they’ll eventually be bringing flexi-top-dollar—whatever that is, eventually.

2.28.26

Little Feat “Down on the Farm”

I’m not crazy about this record, but I’m warming up to it, over time, which is exactly what you want to happen, as opposed to the other way. Still, for me, it’s an uneven record, based on my feelings about each individual song each time I listen to them, so it makes since to go song by song. Aside from the frogs, “Down on the Farm” is a good opener with a nice groove. “Six Feet of Snow,” while blessed with a fine title, is too jaunty—there’s a time and a place for that, of course, but not in my evening. “Perfect Imperfection” is plenty sleazy and sounds like a questionable niteclub where you can get into trouble—a fine soul number, nearly my favorite. “Kokomo” has nice slide guitar but is a bit slight—but it’s Ray Speen’s favorite, for obvious reasons (his hometown, the one in Indiana, which is not that obvious, I guess). “Be One Now” sounds like a song that’s wanting to do something but is getting only halfway there. “Straight From the Heart” is kind of great and kind of bugs me—I guess you could say I’m on the fence, I’m torn, I’m conflicted—it’s catchy, and nice, but also sounds like the opening credits for a TV show from 1980. “Front Page News” is my favorite on the record just because of the groove—at least until it goes all synth-y—well that creates a contrast, I guess—a device, I’ll go with it. “Wake Up Dreaming” sounds like the title song for a TV show called “Wake Up Dreaming,” starring the most TV star of 1979—I sure can’t remember—wearing a hardhat, comically, and eating sandwiches. “Feel the Groove”—I don’t. I read that they were going to break up after this record, anyway, but then, sadly, Lowell George died. So that was it, at least for a while, until they reformed, and carry on, in some version, to this day. There’s a bit of a liner note tribute to LG on back—and it sounds like they considered it their last record—kind of ironic, since an earlier LP was called “The Last Record Album”—and it was, at least for a while—until the one after it.

I used to have a few Little Feat records, lost them, I guess, and now I only have this one, which I found recently. They’re hard to find in the cheap record bins, or so it seems to me (sometimes it’s just luck). I think they’ve got a lot of fans. Like the kind who hang onto their records, at least until they croak. So… I’m trying to find affordable playable copies of the records before this one, including their first live record. All of those, I believe (except the very first), have covers with art by Neon Park—great album covers. That was a solid gold decision, getting that nut involved, and sticking with him. Probably makes them even harder to acquire, now. This is one of the better ones—a half woman half duck sitting in a folding chair by a pool applying fingernail polish which is on the table next to her, along with a mint julep and riding crop. (What’s a half woman half duck? I guess you have to see it/her.) Across the pool, in the background, there’s a tiger—you’re guessing he might hungry (for woman-duck?) but then, if you look closely, he’s pretty relaxed and indeed has a glass of wine or brandy or something. He might even be yawning. The inner sleeve sports full lyrics on one side, while on the other there’s a blown-up black and white snapshot of Lowell George (one can only assume, it’s from the back) walking away, looking like he’s heading up the gravel path to Heaven. It’s grim, but with the right slant, I suppose you could find it humorous, in a gallows way.

2.27.26

The Gaylords “Tell Me You’re Mine” / “Aye Aye Aye”

The last of The Gaylords records I have—I found three in a box, somewhere, awhile back—a gift from this popular vocal trio. Everything’s in threes. The B-side, “Aye Aye Aye,” is pretty interesting because it turns on a dime halfway through—completely different tempo and rhythm, even—it goes from a bouncy “Aye Aye Aye”—with vibes, to a swinging version, with jazzy piano—and then kind of blends the two. At least I think that’s what it’s doing—it’s very complex, genius, musically. The A-side, “Tell me You’re Mine,” is a lovely romantic ballad, which also turns on dime halfway through and goes from one singer to several, and switches from English to Italian. Very nice. And then it doubles back to a dramatic finale. It’s a great song—this was their biggest hit and eventually sold a million copies, you know, give or take a few—how is that even figured? That’s a massive hit, for that time, 1952, and without the help of social media. They were from Detroit. These records were a nice surprise, I mean finding them, and checking them out. They put out tons of singles, and a few albums as well. I’ll keep an eye out for the LPs—I never see them, and you’d think, in Milwaukee, you might. I’m guessing the old-timers hold on to them. A few have Italian themes, like “That’s Amore.” The one I’m really looking out for is “Let’s Have a Pizza Party”—great cover, classic theme, and as they say, you can’t go wrong with pizza.

2.26.26

China Crisis “Working with Fire and Steel – Possible Pop Songs Volume Two”

1983 was the year that I was in probably the best band I’ve ever played in—so, my peak, you could say, as far as that kind of thing—playing music with a band. Not so much because of my ability, but because of the collaborators, the band, the Ragged Bags—a brief high point for me. So you might think when I see a record with that date on it, it would give me positive anticipation, or a warm feeling of some kind. But no. When I see that date on a record that I don’t know, it fills me with dread. It was, for me, not a great time for album buying (even though there must be some great music from this year—but I can’t recall what, offhand). Anyway, this record feels typical of my memory of that time—it’s synthpop, and very synth-y and very pop-y. I have to admit, I like this music a lot more now than a would have in 1983. I’ve gotten soft, maybe, but also, I enjoy something that’s done well, even if it’s not my bag of tea. I also appreciate nice melodies more now than when I was younger (when I was more in favor of screaming and noise, which bugs me now). So, sure, I can listen to this record. Nothing really bad about it. It’s just not likely to blow my mind or anything. The band was from England, and this record is an import—it’s got that flimsy, glossy cover—nice art, some photos of nuclear power plants. The title fairly screams “art.” I know nothing about this band—though the inner sleeve has far too much information—so much, I’m ignoring it. The internet reveals that they are still together, still a band, so who knows, they could be playing in Milwaukee tonight. Some lineup changes over the years, naturally, but the weirdest bit I discovered is that Walter Becker was briefly a member, in 1985. I did not know that. That’s kind of exciting. That warrants an additional listening. My impression of the record is exactly the same.

2.25.26

Steve Goodman “Say It in Private”

This is that Steve Goodman record with the cover pic of him in a bathtub styled after that famous David painting, The Death of Marat (1793)—showing the guy dead in his bathtub, I guess assassinated, stabbed to death! Which makes me uncomfortable, since the time a landlord barged in while I was taking a bath (plumbing problem, water leaking, not my fault). You don’t want that—you want to be able to relax and write in your bathtub like a normal person. It just occurred to me that Clifton Webb, typing in his bathtub, at the beginning of Laura (1944), also refers to that painting. Here, it’s extra disturbing because it’s a photo made to look like a painting or vice versa—I’m not sure which—so it’s a little “uncanny valley.” There are a few cover songs here, and the rest written by or co-written by Steve Goodman—some dealing with social-political themes that are, naturally, dated—best to think of it as a time capsule of 1977. The weird thing is that in the sense that it’s dated, it feels very contemporary—in that “the more things change the more they stay the same” sense. Also, I feel like 1977 was just around the corner in that I don’t usually buy records that come out past 1975 or so—just a preference. Production started getting worse, I don’t know why. I do love Steve Goodman, but this record has a combination of topical humor, irreverence, politics, sentimentality, and bad sound—but all in the wrong places—so it’s a bit of a bummer, for me, overall. I do really like, the more I consider it, the album cover.

2.23.26

Ray Thomas “From Mighty Oaks”

I found this 1975 record in the used store sitting next to its 1976 companion, Hopes, Wishes & Dreams, as if competing for the worst title of all time award. With album cover art to match! (I’ve since encountered them in stores, always the pair, never one without the other!) I thought for a moment they had mis-shelved some drastically reduced nostalgia calendars, but no—two albums from the mid-Seventies that I’d never heard of by a guy I’d never heard of, Ray Thomas (not to be confused with Thomas Ray, the cricketer). But, of course, I’d heard Ray Thomas, as one of the founding members, and flautist, of The Moody Blues. And indeed, it was when that band took a well-deserved break that led to this twin masterwork.

First up, there’s a kind of lame overture, an instrumental medley of songs on the album! I tried to talk them out of it, but who listens to a 15-year-old? But then we get the real first song, the fantastic “Hey Mama Life,” kicking off with a line like, “For a man who drinks his whisky by the jar.” I’m in! Had the members of the Mama Art Movement (c.1987) known about this LP, surely this number would have been our anthem. “Play it Again” is another good one! And if you can say, much less sing, “play it again” without adding “Sam”—you’re a better man than I. The song has a bridge that’s so epic, you want to call it Natural Selection—which even leads to its own solo— impressive. The next, however, is somebody else’s teatime, sorry. Then a decent rocker, highlighted buy some harmonica, speaking of turds. Side Two, however, back on track with the epic, “Love is the Key”—dude is going for it, extending the last words of each line with enough vocal vibrato to cause structural damage in some old buildings. If you thought he might be a bit shy about excessive romantic sentiment, forget it now! “You Make Me Feel Alright”—which I Like Okay. “Adam and I,” AKA, Eve’s Lament, also okay. But finally, “I Wish We Could Fly” is a closer to close all closers—just way, way, way over the top—sounding almost like they didn’t expect to ever do another almost identical record the next year.

The inside cover is an actually kind of pretty, soft-focus and subtle photo of a man (Ray?) and a child—sentimental, but tasteful—which could have easily been the wistful, not disturbing album cover. And then there’s the insert, which opens to a 24-inch-tall, low-contrast b&w photo of Thomas, hands on hips, looking like he’s here to collect the rent. Complete lyrics are superimposed on either side of him. On half the other side is a fantasy inspired illustration of a mighty oak, with gaps and branches and shadows spelling out the record’s title, with Ray Thomas mowed in the grass below. Perhaps this came in second as album cover consideration. But then… on the other side, is one of the best band photos I’ve ever seen, a bit Olan Mills style, and they’re really duded up with enough clashing colors and patterns to cause a disturbance in The Force. You kind of wonder if they got together, with the wardrobe, whimsically—but that hair! Nothing not serious there!

Now, this album cover, as initially gag-inducing as it is, deserves some time here. It opens up to a 24-inch-wide panorama, an idyllic landscape with illustrated creatures (including man and boy) enjoying themselves, but it’s interesting, because when closed, it naturally becomes two different scenes. And you’ll notice on the left side, which is the back cover, a swimming swan and five swan-lets, a bearded man reclining next to a hopeless fishing pole while his focus is on the book he’s reading. Then, in the background, at first seems to be a nostalgic countryside scene with a little house, representing “home.” But if you look more closely, you’ll notice it looks like two identical houses sitting perpendicular and butted up against each other. What could it mean? And instead of one large tree next to the house(s), there are two trees, almost identical—but maybe not quite close enough to hang a hammock from. There is no hammock, either way. And stretching from the left side of the horizon, a rainbow arches into the clouds, but it has no color—it’s a white rainbow! Okay, then, the right side, or front cover, has a swan landing in the water, a boy with a little sailboat, and a dog bounding about. But then, way in the background, under a haze, lies a castle—where, no doubt, lies unspeakable evil.

2.20.26

Ray Thomas “Hopes, Wishes & Dreams”

The magic pointer fell on this 1976 enigma—but wait! There’s an equally as enigmatic 1975 LP with a similar style cover that I bought alongside this one. But I’ll pretend I know nothing about either, and document my impressions of this one, then go back and examine its odd companion and see what I can figure out! At any rate, if you’re apt to listen to the beginning of the first song on a record and reject it based on that initial impression, you might’ve missed out here, because it does not start out splendid. Somebody else’s teatime, to put it mildly. (It’s from whence the off-putting title of this LP comes from.) But you might not have gotten even that far—if you simply looked at the album cover—a sappy, seaside illustration that kind of looks like a drunken Kinkade (and that’s saying something). But then, by the second song, there’s something interesting about it—it’s subtly intriguing. And then by the third song, “We Need Love,” you know something is going on. It’s either an all-out display of unbridled romantic sincerity or a brilliant parody of such. The over-the-top string arrangements helps with that impression. Then a boring song. But the last one, “One Night Stand,” is quite catchy. Or catching, what have you. But what does Side Two have in store for us? Could go either way! A boring rocker starts us off. But then… a beautiful ballad, “Didn’t I”—it’s my favorite on the album—great song. Including a fine, what-sounds-like trumpet solo, but I don’t see trumpet credited—I could enter the rabbit-hole, or… just… let… it… go…

After that, well… kind of dull. If you have a song called “Carousel” and make the organ sound like a calliope… what can I say. Time to focus on the visual artistry! As bad as the album cover is—despite opening up to a panorama—the inside presents a life-size portrait of Ray Thomas that’s so striking, it’s almost equally disturbing and beautiful. He’s a good-looking guy, certainly—hairy—of the time. But this photo, so big and intense—it might literally hypnotize someone. It should come with a warning. And then, there’s a lyrics insert, with credits, and six Polaroid-size musician photos that are pretty amusing. (Among the names: Nicky James, John Jones, Terry James, Trevor Jones. Are they fucking with us? Or just British?) Also funny—there are six guys, five of them with (musical) instruments, and one with a (tobacco) pipe! I mean, he’s he arranger, Terry James, so it kind of makes sense—direct from The Shire. The album purports to be a collaboration with Nicky James, so I’m sure it is, but he only gets one of the soft-focus three-inch squares while Ray gets that monument-size portrait. Could it be about Nicky’s choice of shirts? (See: other review’s notes on the insert of Of Mighty Oaks.) And… on the other side of this insert, it’s the waist up shot of Thomas from the same session—this one smiling, which highlights his God-given choppers—and showcasing a mind-bending shirt. I want that shirt.

2.20.26

Jellyroll “Jellyroll”

If this wasn’t the biggest record of 1970 it isn’t because it’s not energetic, with super-hot playing all around—particularly the rhythm section, and funk guitar, and rock organ, and horns, and a singer who’s going for it—wait, I just said everyone. It’s got an excellent album cover which opens up for a vertical, 24” x 12” psychedelic illustration (by Ignacio Gomez) of a woman made up of an incredible array of confectionery (somewhat in the style of painter Giuseppe Arcimboldo) both appetizing and nightmarish, and suitable for hanging in your crib. The band photo, inside, is very cool. The songs are all very good, solid songs. So what went wrong? Maybe it was the T. S. Eliot quote. I’m just kidding—it’s a good quote—the font’s a little large. Who knows. That saying, “The cream rises to the top?” I firmly believe, with the music industry, it should be: “The shit rises to the top.” Not that the cream doesn’t, sometimes, as well—I suppose both are true—cream and turds. That’s why we have critics, with little poop-scoopers. Well, and then, sometimes great stuff just disappears.

This is their only album. The members of the band went on to play in other bands, at least some of them—I’m not tracking everyone down. Actually, you can find some stuff written about this record online because I think it was kind of “re-discovered” —or is maybe being rediscovered all the time. Which didn’t stop me from finding it for $2 at Half Price Books. If you want some history of the band, or the aftermath—you can find it—I’m not going to regurgitate it here—though one thing I read is particularly interesting—that this band formed out of “The Dapps,” a Cincinnati funk band from the Sixties that backed James Brown for a couple of years. You don’t need to know that to hear it on the record’s best songs, which lapse into some extremely nice funk grooves. The concept of “overdoing it” is virtually absent from this record. I can’t necessarily speak for the band—I’m not implying that they partied ’til they dropped or did the Barkley Marathons or drove their rock bus recklessly—I want to assume they were model citizens and practiced a lot. It’s an accomplished LP.

I usually list the best (my favorite) songs, but my editor said don’t do that, it’s boring, so I’ve got a “Restless Feeling” to follow a different approach and “Search for a Memory” (hot), since the song titles lend themselves to a miniature abstract psychedelic narrative for your pleasure, including a “cover” of the 1968 single from psych band Aorta—a song I’m familiar with, even though I’ve never heard of Aorta!  “Strange.” I’ve tried to forget the past, and I’m “Trying to Forget Someone Too” during a “Quick Trip” to the convenience store for microwave pizza in order to “Help Me Over” (very good) to Side Two which just gets better, “Come On, Baby” (!) and “Follow Me” (!!) “At the Beginning of Tomorrow” (AKA, midnight) for some “Hard Times” (fav on the record) where I’m standing on the inside looking out (AKA “Standing on the Inside”—exceptional closer). So. They all went their separate ways, as far as I can tell. Any further info can be transmitted for free. One side note: the drummer, Stu Perry, went on to play with Blue Rose. Which renders this a Blue Rose case.

2.13.26

The Mom and Dads “20 Favorite Waltzes”

They weren’t kidding, ten songs per side, waltzes, polka, each with identical sound and tempo, but each as unique as a fingerprint (or song). So few notes, so many songs, it always freaks me out to think about. The excellent cover photo of the band (one mom and three dads, and they look great) is bordered by a 1984 re-release hot-pink frame that really poorly compliments the musicians’ Pepto-toned vests, white shirts and pants (and skirt), and white, leather shoes. As is often the case, expanding the photo to cover the entire cover would have been a better option. The back cover lists all of the songs and composer credits, but fails to credit the band whatsoever. We have the internet for that, but when this record came out, I guess you had to know a Mom and Dads enthusiast or something, or maybe already have one of their records—they released tons between 1970 and this time. Frankly, it’s not my cup of beef barley soup—and by the time I got through this epic journey, I felt like I’d paid my dues, sure enough. I don’t dislike the music, but I’d much rather hear it live—and you can still find polka bands performing in Milwaukee (I think—sadly, the Pandemic rendered nothing a sure thing—even eggs aren’t necessarily eggs). Weirdly, I realize that I know most of these songs—and the ones I don’t know are so much like the ones I know, it makes me question everything—and brings back, for a few, brief seconds—a dream I had last night—believe it or else!

2.10.26

Leon Russell “Leon Russell”

On my copy, the Shelter Records logo is blocked out with a black bar, why? I asked the Professor and was informed that it’s because the logo resembled the “Superman” “S” —so there was a lawsuit. Which strikes me as ridiculous, unless they were claiming Superman sang on the records—and as we all know, the Man of Steel sucks as a musician. You know who doesn’t? Leon Russell. Anyway, it turns out that that black bar makes this a rare record—looks like it’s worth a million bucks. You know who doesn’t look like a million bucks? Leon Russell. The picture of him on the cover looks like it’s maybe from 1870, not 1970 (year of this release). He tops that considerably in the small picture on the back, smoking, and wearing a dented top hat. The rings around his eyes look like craters of the Moon. Well, frankly, he looks like a zombie—except for his expression, which is plaintive, if you ask me. All songs written, or cowritten by him. “A Song for You,” pretty much just piano and singing, is a perfect song. Then we rock out a bit. “Hummingbird” is nice. “Delta Lady,” a classic. “Pisces Apple Lady” is one you can move to. Plus, that title. “Roll Away the Stone,” another stone classic. There are no musician credits anywhere in sight, but he “dedicates” the record to quite a stellar posse—were they who played on this fine outing? It’s a list that could comprise a band and half, to say the least. Do I especially like Leon Russell because of his last name, that reminds me of me? Or because of his first name, that reminds me of Leon? Or because it’s not even his real name? —which is: The Master of Space and Time. Or because he’s a one-of-a-kind recording artist? All answers are correct.

2.6.26